Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

As Makaidos closed his eyes, Roxil’s faint voice crept into his ear. “Why, Goliath? Why?”

Goliath laughed. “As our father said. No witnesses. You refused to allow the Nephilim to enter your mind, so you could not be trusted.”

Darkness shrouded Makaidos’s vision. As he sighed his last breath, his daughter spoke again, her voice failing. “Father. . I am so. . so. .” She exhaled and breathed no more.

Makaidos pushed his wing over her body, then darkness washed over his mind.

Sapphira plunged headfirst through the dark, cold air in the mysterious pit, keeping the torch at the bottom firmly set in her sights. She felt no fear. The warmth from the Ovulum seemed to radiate courage into her heart.

As the torch drew closer, the darkness melted, turning the night skies into the fullness of day. Her descent slowed, and her body turned upright, as if someone had pushed an invisible hand underneath her. Finally, she landed next to her torch, both feet thudding against a hard surface, jarring her spine. Her momentum threw her into a roll, but when she came to a stop, she quickly leaped to her feet and hurried back to her landing point.

She picked up the torch and whispered to the flame. “No need for you, now.”

Setting a hand on her hip, she turned from side to side. With a dry fountain to her left and the smashed remains of crates and marketplace carts to her right, this village seemed very familiar ruined, but familiar. In her mind’s eye, she painted in the missing pieces, reassembling the market and filling the fountain with gushing water. She added people, young and old, men and women in colorful clothes

Sapphira snapped her fingers. That was it! This is Shinar! She spun around and gazed at a low rise, looking for the tower, but there was nothing at the top, just a huge gap. She scurried to the crest and peered across the empty expanse. Obviously this was where the tower stood before the museum dropped through the portal.

As she walked toward the center of the tower mound, a sense of grief grew so strong she couldn’t bear to continue. Memories of Acacia again flashed into her mind her frightened eyes, her terrified scream.

Sapphira hustled back to the edge of the crest and looked out over the city. The familiar idols and remnants of the tar pits dotted the landscape. Yet, not a soul stirred anywhere. Setting one hand on her hip again, she scratched her head with the butt end of her torch. How could this be? How could Shinar get physically moved from its place so many centuries ago and show up here? Wherever here was.

As she searched for signs of life, the sun stung her eyes, but she caught a glimpse of a shadow, a human shadow, moving far down the vacant street, back where the laborers used to pile bricks from the kilns. Pulling down her veil, she ran toward a gap between two idols. The stacked stone faces that had once collected votive gifts of flowers and jewels now presided over a broken marble floor with only crushed rocks and mud to appease the goddesses.

Now back at the street level, Sapphira trotted, trying to fix her gaze on the spot she had noticed movement, but her veil flapped against her face, obstructing her vision. As she slowed to furtive tiptoeing, she straightened the veil. Whatever made that shadow had to be around somewhere. But where?

She kicked a pile of crushed rocks, scattering dust around her ankles. The high portico that had once covered the brick-making area had collapsed. Broken beams and marble lay in heaps on the dirt floor. The kilns were now punched through on every side, as though an army of invaders had marched in and ruined everything in sight. Red and gray bricks lay strewn and broken, some pieces thrown as far away as the opposite side of the dirt street. With her courage still flowing, she called out, “Is anyone here?”

A gentle breeze brushed her ears, but nothing else. “Is anyone here?” she called again.

This time, a sharp voice replied. “Who are you?”

Sapphira took a step back. Should she answer? What if this person knew Morgan? Could she risk letting him know her name? She cleared her throat and spoke in her sweetest tone. “I am a lost traveler from another land. Is there anyone here who can help me find my way?”

A head bobbed up from behind one of the kilns, a young male with ragged brown hair. When he caught sight of her, his eyes widened. “Are you a girl?”

Sapphira glanced down at her body and straightened her frumpy dress. “Isn’t it obvious?”

The boy stepped out from behind the kiln. “I guess so. I haven’t seen very many. Only grown women, really. No one as young as you.”

Sapphira untied her coif and pulled it off, letting her hair tumble down. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she walked closer. The boy’s mouth dropped open. His eyes seemed glazed.

She looked down at her dress again. “Is something wrong?”

He swallowed and retied a leather sash at the front of his dirty gray tunic. “No. It’s just that. . Do all girls have white hair and shining blue eyes like yours?”

She swept a handful of hair over the front of her shoulder. “No. Only one other that I know of, but she’s dead.” Taking three more steps, she closed the gap between them and stood within arm’s reach. “Your voice is familiar. .”

“So is yours.”

She whispered, “Elam?”

A broad smile crossed the boy’s face. “Mara?”

Sapphira laughed and threw her arms around his neck. “Yes! I’m Mara!” She hoped Elam would return the embrace, but his body stiffened, feeling cold and hard. She laid her hands on his shoulders and pulled back. “I mean, I’m not Mara anymore. My name’s Sapphira now, but I’m the girl from the below lands.”

He pulled back farther, letting Sapphira’s hands slip away. “That’s impossible,” he said, squinting at her. “How could you still be alive after all these years?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

He picked up half a brick, his grip tight and his bicep flexed. “How do I know you’re not just another one of Morgan’s tricks to get me to do what she wants? You might be an imposter.”

“If you remember Morgan,” she said, wiggling her fingers in front of him, “I’m sure you’ll remember licking stew off of these.”

“I remember.” His ears turned red, and he dropped the brick. “No one else would know about that.”

“Speaking of stew. .” She swiveled her head from side to side. “Where do you find food in this place?”

“I never looked for food. I haven’t eaten anything for years.”

“Years?” she repeated. “How is that possible?”

Elam shrugged his shoulders. “I never get hungry.”

“Never? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Elam scraped his sandal along the ground. “Remember that tree Morgan has?”

“Uh-huh. Is that where you got that blossom you gave me?”

“Yes. I ate some of the fruit, the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and I haven’t been hungry since.”

Sapphira sighed. “The blossom never faded. I’ve been hiding it under Paili’s bed for centuries.”

“Paili’s alive, too? I’m glad to hear that. She’s a real nice girl from what I could tell.”

“She is, and keeping her out of Morgan’s clutches is worth all the trouble.” She turned slowly in a circle. “So, what is this place?”

“It might not be the truth, but Morgan explained everything to me.” He spread out his arms. “This whole place is the sixth circle of Sheol Hades, I guess they call it now. There used to be lots of people here, dead souls who waited for the Messiah to come and take them to heaven.”

Sapphira kicked a broken brick, scattering more dust across the empty path. “So I guess this messiah came, then.”

“Looks that way. My grandfather told me he was coming someday. Whoever he is, Morgan hates him with a passion. She says the Messiah was vindictive and left behind a lot of souls, but they’re in other circles.”